A Wedding in the Highlands

The tune outside changed to a jauntier melody, and Beatrice sat up, eager to begin what was certain to be a glorious day.

“I’ve a breakfast tray being prepared for ye,” Mrs. McNeil said. “Can’t be having yer man see ye afore the wedding.”

“A tray?” Beatrice shook her head. “I would like to eat with the staff, as I’ve done in the past.” It had been several weeks since she had breakfasted below stairs, but she saw no reason not to today, given that superstition absolutely forbade her from seeing Theodore until they were at the church. Nae until ye be walking intae the kirk, Mrs. McNeil—the foremost expert on all aspects of a Highland wedding—had informed them both no less than a dozen times.

Instead of arguing with Beatrice’s request to breakfast with the staff, Mrs. McNeil beamed. “That would be right kind of ye. I dinnae think anyone would protest.”

“I’ll be along in a minute,” Beatrice said, waiting until the housekeeper had exited the room before changing from her nightgown to a simple shirtwaist and skirt. Her wedding finery was upstairs and wouldn’t be needed until much later in the day.

At the long table in the room beside the kitchen, everyone—all twelve servants currently employed at Broughleigh—stood as she entered. The table was set with some of the china usually reserved for special occasions upstairs, and a veritable feast of pastries, fruit, fresh bread, cheeses, oat cakes, boiled eggs, sliced ham, and the ever-present porridge spread from end to end.

“What’s all this?” Beatrice asked, clasping her hands in front of her.

“A celebration for ye.” The corners of Cook’s eyes crinkled merrily. “A thank-ye for bringing this house back tae life and filling it with light.”

Beatrice’s clasped hands drew closer to her heart. “But I haven’t done anything—except to make you short-staffed once again.”

Cook had practically cried the afternoon Theodore had told her that he intended to marry Beatrice and she would no longer be helping in the kitchen. Not tears of joy but genuine sorrow that she’d just lost her favorite assistant.

“Please. Sit. Eat.” Beatrice waved her hand toward the table. “It’s just me. I don’t deserve any honors.”

“Aye, but ye do.” Arthur tromped into the kitchen, his face red from either the cold or the effort he’d expended playing reveille before the sun was fully up. Though not officially employed at Broughleigh, Arthur called it his home and was welcomed here. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather and so on—back more generations than anyone could actually trace—had all been pipers on the grand estate, some even remaining in hiding with their pipes during the decades they had been banned. And while there wasn’t much need for a piper anymore, the tradition was honored—even by Broughleigh’s current English lord.  

Beatrice slipped into her familiar seat at the table, and Logan offered a blessing on both the food and the day. Then she took a scone and some of the jam she and Theodore had picked the berries for a month ago.

“Mmm. Delicious,” she mumbled around the first bite, grinning at Cook across the table. Several weeks ago, once Beatrice had been accepted by and become friends with the staff at Broughleigh, she had asked Cook what her real name was. To Beatrice’s surprise, Cook had said she did not know. For as long as she could remember—as a wee girl working in the kitchen at Broughleigh—she had always simply been called Cook.

“I came too early, and mi mither died birthin’ me. Everyone believed I wasna’ long for this world either, such a wee bairn was I. The housekeeper set me in a basket near the kitchen stove tae keep me warm, and the jest became that I was still bein’ cooked.”

“It worked well,” Beatrice had said, glancing up from her task peeling turnips to admire Cook’s stout form.

“Aye. Too well.” Cook patted her round middle. “It’s what comes from spendin’ a lifetime in the kitchen.”

“If ye weren’t  too dead-brilliant with yer creations, we’d all be a bit trimmer,” Ian said as he came into the kitchen and joined them at the table. “I must have gained half a stone since I started here.” He nodded to Beatrice. “His lordship is lookin’ verra fine this morning, milady. A bit dour that he can’t see ye yet, but he’ll be all right.”

 Beatrice smiled at her soon-to-be husband’s valet, who had been hired at about the same time she had last May when they were both enlisted to help Theodore while he was recovering from the surgeries related to his injuries sustained in the Crimean War. Both would be staying on, though Beatrice was no longer considered an employee and hadn’t been for some time now.

 “If yer tae have a proper Scottish wedding, ye’ll not be seein’ him until just afore the wedding,” Mrs. McNeil reiterated.

“Aye,” the others at the table murmured.

 “I shall endeavor to wait,” Beatrice said, wondering how slowly the next few hours would pass until she saw Theodore again.

“We’ve much tae do, lass,” Mrs. McNeil said with a knowing look. “Time will pass quickly.”  

“Ye canna see yer man just yet, but I’ll let ye have a snitch of the bridescake,” Cook offered with a wink at Beatrice.

She grinned back at her and then at all gathered around the table. My new family. Her time here had been better than any other in her life since she had lost her real family when she was a girl. When she and Theodore had announced their decision to stay in the Highlands and make Broughleigh their permanent residence, the staff had applauded their approval. Since then, there had been a new kind of joy here, an optimism for the future. More than once, Beatrice had overheard Mrs. McNeil and Cook gleefully discussing the possibility of having children in the house again. An idea that made Beatrice’s insides fluttery for several reasons.

That she and Theodore were both English had been largely overlooked by their Scottish staff, given his plans for the house and their willingness to adapt to Highland culture and adopt as many of the traditions as possible that Mrs. McNeil and Logan and Arthur plied them with. Today, there were many to be followed, and Beatrice was only too happy to comply.

“No time for snitching cake now,” Mrs. McNeil said firmly as she placed a hand on the back of Beatrice’s chair. “We’ve work tae be done if yer tae be the most beautiful bride Broughleigh has ever seen.”

* * *

At noon, the Earl of Langston’s carriage, the first of two employed for the day, stopped in front of the Old High Church in Inverness. Theodore waited for the footman to lower the step and open the door before extending his cane and getting himself down the steps with minimal difficulty. He intended to leave the cane behind as much as possible today, but he had accepted that it was to be his companion for the rest of his life. So long as Beatrice was on his other side, he did not mind his altered state too much—retaining a limp and having lost sight in his right eye. Beatrice more than made up for his losses.

Just thinking of her and the vows they would speak a few hours from now, and how they would belong to one another forever more after that, brought a smile to his face, if not a spring to his step. Indeed, he felt rather reluctant to climb the steps to the church and meet the man waiting for him inside. Though the gentleman was here at his invitation, Theodore still wasn’t certain how he felt about Beatrice’s uncle, given the neglect and mistreatment she had endured for so many years while living under his roof.

At the top of the steps, Theodore braced himself for a myriad of possibilities. Her uncle very well might be angry with him. Not only had Theodore failed to ask him for Beatrice’s hand in marriage, but he had not even notified him of the wedding until last week. Or perhaps her uncle was angry with Theodore for marrying Beatrice instead of Violet, her cousin to whom he had originally been betrothed but who had eloped with another man at the beginning of summer.

Regardless of all of that, no matter what her uncle said or felt, Theodore was not going to allow him to ruin their wedding day. No more would Beatrice’s uncaring relatives harm her.

Theodore stopped just inside the church, adjusting to the dim light within. He’d stood there but a few seconds when a voice addressed him.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here—and for coming. I know I have done little to earn any regard from you.” A man rose from one of the back pews and started toward him. He dipped forward with a slight bow. “Good afternoon to you, Lord Hughes.”

“And you, Lord Worthington,” Theodore returned.

“My niece did not accompany you?” Lord Worthington asked.

“She will not be here until this afternoon when we are to be married.”

“Marrying so late in the day means you will be avoiding the traditional wedding breakfast, I see,” Lord Worthington observed.

“We are not avoiding anything, rather embracing our choice to remain in the Highlands. Following Scottish tradition, we will host a ceilidh at Broughleigh this evening.”

“I did not realize you had any Scottish blood.”

“I imagine that many of us do—somewhere. Broughleigh came to me through a distant cousin who did not produce an heir. Beatrice and I have found life there to be to our liking, and so we intend to remain indefinitely.”

“So you’ve said.” Lord Worthington held his hand out, indicating the pew he had vacated. “Shall we continue our discussion over there? You are standing admirably, but I imagine your leg still pains you. And if you are to dance with your bride later this evening . . .”

“It does pain me, and I do intend to dance with my wife.” For a minute or two at least. It was one of the things worrying him about today, along with the man before him. Theodore wanted everything to be perfect for Beatrice. Ideally, that meant having her uncle here to escort her down the aisle. And later, the first dance of the evening with her new husband. One problem at a time,he reminded himself.

They sat facing each other on the narrow pew, Theodore’s troublesome leg jutting out toward the aisle.   

He cleared his throat and began. “I was grateful to heed your request to speak to you today without Beatrice present, because she is desirous to have you be a part of her life. She tells me you have always been kind to her and at one time even treated her as a daughter.”

Lord Worthington shook his head. “She is far too generous with me.”

“I believe she is that way with everyone,” Theodore replied. “The only soul I have ever met who is as kind and gentle is Miss Nightingale, who nursed so many of us back to life in Crimea. But whether or not Beatrice has been too generous does not signify. I asked you here to ascertain whether or not you are amenable to being a presence for good in her life.”

“Amenable?” Lord Worthington’s eyes snapped to Theodore’s. “Of course I am. She is my brother’s child—all that is left of him and—” He broke off abruptly.

“And the woman you loved,” Theodore finished.

Lord Worthington nodded in surprise. “Yes. But how did you—”

“Beatrice has been aware for some years that you were in love with her mother. I believe that is why she suffered at your wife’s hand. Jealousy has a tendency to bring out the worst in people.”

Lord Worthington let out a sigh that was half a bitter laugh. “Truer words were never spoken. It was my jealousy that drove Beatrice’s mother away—right into my brother’s arms. I courted her first, you know. But he was often there with us, and he could make her laugh as I could not. She assured me there was nothing between them, but our relationship ended when I could not let it go. I did not trust her—or my brother—as I should have. It was two years later that they met again at a party and he began to call on her. One thing led to another, and . . .” He sighed. “I did not make it easy on them. They married and moved to India, largely to get away from me.” Lord Worthington looked up at Theodore, his eyes pooled with misery. They both might yet be alive had I not acted as I did and driven them from the country.”

Theodore leaned back against the bench, a new ache in his chest for Lord Worthington. Guilt practically shimmered in the air around him. Even his shoulders drooped beneath his heavy burden.

“I feel as if I am a priest who has just heard confessional,” he admitted, uncertain what else to say.

Lord Worthington smiled. “And I feel a bit the part of a parishioner. It felt good to tell you that. Now you know the measure of the man I am—or am not—and can decide if you would like me to be a part of Beatrice’s future.”

“I know of the man you used to be,” Theodore said. “Though I imagine the man before me is very different now.”

“He tries to be.” Lord Worthington met his gaze. “I never stopped loving Beatrice’s mother. Perhaps it is that way for each of us with our first loves.”

Theodore considered this, then quickly disagreed. But then, now that he knew what it was to love Beatrice, he did not think he had ever actually loved Violet. Certainly, he had been infatuated with her. And it might have been that he could have loved her. But what he and Beatrice had was something entirely different—deeper, better, and lasting.

“When Beatrice came to us, I was heartbroken and guilt-ridden. I wanted nothing so much as to shower her with all the love and affection a father can, to do right by her because I had wronged her parents so grievously.”

“But you didn’t,” Theodore said, not unkindly, though it was the truth.

 “No.” Lord Worthington dropped his gaze. “Margaret was the jealous one then. She accused me of all sorts of things. We were already unhappy together, and she made it seem as if it would be better for both girls if I stayed away. So I did. I have.”

 “Until now?” Theodore asked.

  Lord Worthington looked at him once more, question in his eyes.

 “Beatrice would be the first one to tell you to suffer no longer beneath the weight of the past. She has flung hers off so admirably—and is helping me to shed mine as well—that I know she would insist that what is done is done and what is ahead is where your heart and intentions and actions must venture. She would like you to be a part of her—our lives. As would I. Beginning today, when you walk her down the aisle.”

* * *

“No pigs or funerals in sight,” Ian called to Theodore, Beatrice, and her uncle where they stood a short distance from the church. “Ye are safe tae begin now.”

 From the steps outside the church, Arthur played the first notes on his bagpipes—a jaunty tune that sounded like something soldiers might march off to war to.

“Are ye off yer heid?” Mrs. McNeil swung a hand in his direction as if to wrest the pipes from him. “Ye canna play that for a weddin’.”

Theodore, with a broad grin on his face, turned to Beatrice. “Are you ready?”

“To become Lady Langston? Most definitely. Let us proceed, milord.” Her heartbeat escalated as he raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of her gloved one. Then he released her, turned away, and began the trek with only his cane as a companion.

“Here ye be, lass.” Mrs. McNeil pressed a bouquet—complete with sprigs of white heather for luck, along with the traditional purple Scottish thistle—into her hand.

“Mind ye don’t let any of those poke ye,” Mrs. McNeil said. “We added but a few, one each for strength, courage, and perseverance.”

Beatrice suppressed a laugh. “I don’t think I’ll be needing any of those being married to Theodore.”

“Spoken like a true bride,” Cook said, coming up beside them. “Nae woman believes she’ll ever find fault with her man at first, but trust me—all men, even yer Lord Langston, try our patience at some time.”

Beatrice looked toward Theodore, steadily making his way ahead of her, his limp still more pronounced than he would like. A swell of love and admiration flooded her, filling her eyes with tears. Maybe she would need strength, courage, and perseverance someday, but she very much doubted it would ever be because of anything he had done.

At a gentle touch on her arm, she looked from her soon-to-be husband to her uncle, still not quite believing he was here and smiling at her and ready to walk her up the aisle as her father would have. Theodore had arranged this surprise, and he assured her that he had much to tell her of their conversation.

“Are you ready?” her uncle asked.

“Yes.” She placed her hand on his outstretched arm, and they followed Theodore toward the church.

The other occupants of Broughleigh trailed behind, along with the few friends and acquaintances Theodore had invited. Noticeably absent were her aunt and cousin who had not been invited. The latter had been reunited with the man she had eloped with after it was discovered she was with child.

  On either side of the street, passerby stopped to stare at the wedding processional. This walk to the church was one of many little customs that Mrs. McNeil had insisted was important, though she worried this one didn’t quite count, as they were not crossing water twice, which was truly needed for good luck.

Beatrice had believed it would be worse luck if the groom, walking on legs that were yet healing, stumbled and fell on his wedding day. And so the journey had been shortened considerably.

The bell pealed from the Old High Church at precisely five o’clock as Beatrice had learned that it always did. Though today, she thought of the chime proclaiming her happiness, rather than announcing any curfew.

 Inside the church Mrs. McNeil unbustled the train on Beatrice’s white lace wedding gown, then stepped back and took a seat, dabbing at her eyes as she did.

Feeling like a princess, Beatrice continued up the aisle past the mostly empty pews. The small wedding party did not bother her in the least; in fact, she preferred it, as did Theodore.

“Less people to gawk at me,” he had declared when they were making their plans.

“If any were to gawk,” Beatrice had replied, “it would be in wonder and confusion that such a plain woman had captured a man with such a handsome face.”

“Captured, captivated, commanded . . .” Theodore had flung himself down on the sofa beside her in mock surrender. “But the lass who has stolen my heart is not plain, but the rarest beauty. I suppose I must kiss her again to convince her of that.” And so he had.

Beatrice’s cheeks warmed now as she remembered that kiss.

“Are you all right?” her uncle asked.

She nodded. “Perfectly.” Splendidly. In love with the man I am about to marry. 

They reached the top of the aisle, and her uncle kissed her on the cheek and placed her hand into Theodore’s. The priest stepped forward to begin the ceremony.

 Mrs. McNeil and Logan had helped Theodore to arrange everything and had taught them both about the enchanting Highland wedding traditions. But hearing about them and being a part of them was entirely different. She really was a princess in a fairytale. Both the vows they spoke and the words spoken to them were pure poetry—reverent, sacred, stunning.

Blessed be this union with the gifts of the earth.

Warmth of hearth and home, and the heat of heart’s passion.

The deep commitments of a loch, and the swift excitement of a river.

The cleansing of the rain, the passion of the sea, and the warmth of the sun.

The light of the sun, moon, and stars to illuminate even in the darkest of times.

May God in Heaven above keep you and hold you in your love for one another always.

She was still basking in the beauty and imagery of the words when a tartan cloth was brought out and wound round their clasped hands in a Celtic knot.

“No beginning and no end,” Beatrice murmured as she gazed into Theodore’s eyes. Love reflected back to her, and that moment alone seemed to make up for all of her years of loneliness.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“And I you.”

They raised their joined hands together and turned to face the small congregation.

* * *

“It’s time for the traditional grand march,” Mrs. McNeil announced, taking a glass from Beatrice and setting it on the table. “There’ll be time for eatin’ later.”

The evening’s ceilidh had far more attendees than their wedding ceremony, as Theodore had encouraged the staff to invite their family and friends. Though neither of them knew many of their guests, they were still having a lovely time, being together more than they might have, had they known everyone. But Mrs. McNeil still had her plans.

Arthur had his pipes out again, and they were to begin the dancing. Theodore took Beatrice in his arms. “What say you, dear wife? Are you up for a spot of dancing?”

“Aye, milord.” Beatrice stepped closer to him—a necessity, as he might require her support during their turn around the floor of the great hall.

The crowd had parted so they were the only two in the center of the vast room. Arthur began a quieter tune, and she and Theodore began a slow waltz. That was certainly not the traditional, lively dance of a ceilidh.

It’s far better. Theodore drew her closer yet, and the world fell away. It was just the two of them and the melody of the Highlands. Summer here had been glorious, autumn stunning so far, and winter was rumored to be harsh and isolating—a good thing for a newly married couple who wished for time alone.

“What are you thinking about with the coy smile?” Theodore asked.

“Winter in the Highlands,” Beatrice confessed. “And being in our room together, warm and cozy before the fire. I think, perhaps, I may like that even better than summer.”

Theodore’s lips curved upward to match hers. “I believe I will too.”

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